Convention Conversations
by the Unrequited Lover
Summary: Sequel to the Convention. Velvet Goldmine fans have besieged the Convention, and Erik, Steerpike, and Dorian Gray are arrested.


**_Disclaimer: Erik belongs to Gaston Leroux (not Andrew Lloyd Webber, which is a plot point). Dorian Gray belongs to Oscar Wilde (and get used to the blonde one; that he's not the Stuart Townsend one is a plot point). Steerpike is Mervyn Peake, though this Steerpike is the BBC version one who is played by Jonathan Rhys Meyers, who played a pansexual pop singer named Brian Slade in _Velvet Goldmine. _That is a plot point also. '_Le vice anglais'_ is a phrase from _Velvet Goldmine_, actually. It means 'English vice', uh, duh. "With your cherry lips and golden curls" is a line from Garbage's "Cherry Lips (Go Baby Go)". The maid Dorian mentions is Violet Larousse, who is from my own Fanfiction, so it's not like I'm dissing anyone else's._ **

Author's Note: This chapter is a little off-topic as compared to the last, but I feel it is necessary to add the more technical-type talking in order to continue my satire on fangirls of the world wide web. Of course, these stories are half parody and not entirely satires; this leads into the next episode of the story, a spoof on a musical.

_Summary: Velvet Goldmine fans have besieged the Convention, and the three remaining members are arrested. The first should be read if this is to make any sense. The first can also be read as a one-shot, which is why it's a separate chapter._

It was only a short time that the group had been smoking cigarettes when Dorian Gray took his from his mouth and blew smoke out, his lips in a perfect 'o'. "I love cigarettes," he said listlessly.

"And you're assuming we know why?" Erik asked in his French accent. Behind his mask, he had his eyebrow raised. It was strange how quickly people could be pulled together, united by a common disdain for the rest of the world. The three men had been invited to this conference room (one of many, as they'd find- this just happened to be the crossovers section) by an anonymous figure called "The Researcher", who was studying sociopaths. The meeting, while it had seemed mysterious and intriguing at first, had turned out to be quite a disappointment. First of all, "The Researcher" was a teenage girl who had a monster-sized crush on Dorian Gray, and seemed to have an allergic reaction to the name "Voldemort", though not from any dislike of badly spoken French, as Dorian and Erik disliked it for that reason. Second, putting a group of sociopaths in one room, with nothing but a diminutive timid thing to keep order, is a very bad idea. Erik and Voldemort had accused one another of pedophilia, Dorian had sexually harassed Steerpike to no end, and when at last Voldemort had started calling hyper-sensitive Steerpike a mudblood the former Kitchen Boy had murdered him. "The Researcher" had begun screaming, and finally had left in a hurry. And so now the group of them wasn't sure what to do. While the Dark Wizard's corpse grew cold beside them, the group sat around smoking Dorian's cigarettes, wondering what to do.

"No, I wouldn't expect you two to know _anything_ about it," Dorian said, languidly, yet in an almost feline manner. He lifted the cigarette to his lips, noting the sudden tension in Steerpike's manner, then seemed to have changed his mind about smoking it and remarked, "But haven't you noticed how much a fetish they are, cigarettes?" He tapped his cigarette against a crystal ashtray on the table, watching the ashes briefly before going on. "So long, and yet, so slim…reminds me of life's other little pleasures…"

"I think you have officially taken the fun out of smoking for me," Steerpike said, shuddering, putting out his cigarette decisively as Dorian, with a playful look hovering around his lips, put the cigarette back into his mouth, smoking it, then blowing the smoke into Steerpike's face.

"Is there any reason why you won't leave me alone?" Steerpike said testily, waving his hand in front of his masked visage to expel cigarette smoke. There seemed to him something unpleasantly suggestive about blowing smoke in people's faces after comparing smoking cigarettes to…well…Steerpike shuddered again. "Or do you want to end up like 'The Dark Lord'?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Dorian gracefully, waving his cigarette-holding hand in the air, smoke rising in blue tendrils above their heads. "I think you may find I'll be less easy to be rid of."

"Perhaps at Steerpike's hands," Erik cut in ominously, "but at mine, perhaps not. One learns many tricks as an Opera Ghost." There was a powerfully charged silence, the two masked gentlemen quite tense. Then it was interrupted by the unperturbed Dorian.

"It's not the only position one learns_ tricks_ in, I assure you," he said, quite unfazed.

"There's no stopping you, is there?" said Steerpike dryly.

"Not unless I want to be stopped," said Dorian, taking a puff, then blowing smoke, "no."

Erik stood. "Then, I am afraid I must be going, my British companions," he said tersely, but politely, heading towards the door in an ominous swirl of his cloak.

"Oh, the French," Dorian said in a mock-petulant tone.

"I think I shall depart as well," said Steerpike, standing also (and not wishing to be left alone with Dorian for a moment).

Erik neared the door, but it seemed to open of its own accord, and a group of teenagers all dashed in. Erik was taken slightly aback, which was unusual for him. The group was incredibly colourful, everyone in faux fur, feathers, sequins, animal prints and glitter, wearing platform shoes and remarkable makeup. A few characters wore top hats and frock coats, and it was difficult to discern the gender of many. One could hazard a guess, and say "female", but disconcertingly enough, that was nearly impossible to be sure of.

Erik and Steerpike, united by their love of black and things a little more masculine, stepped towards eachother, as though comrades.

"At least we can tell Gray is male," Steerpike whispered out of the corner of his mouth. Erik nodded, surveying the group with mistrust.

"Excuse me," said one in a British accent, in a gold glittering frock and fishnets, with hair dyed blue, "but would anyone here know where the glam rock concert is?"

"We were told to check the crossover's section," added another, also English, in the back. Erik and Steerpike exchanged glances. Both speakers had voices too low to be female.

"The English," breathed Erik. "Have they all got English accents? _Mon Dieu!_"

Dorian had watched with dispassionate interest, then put out his cigarette and walked elegantly over to the group. Steerpike was surprised to hear his voice so near him.

"I'm afraid my companions and I weren't aware of any concerts," he said, gesturing with his hands delicately. "We've just finished a survey."

"A survey?"

"For the…Aesthetically-Challenged Antiheroes Assembly," Steerpike finished. "Things went a bit awry. Erik and myself were just leaving, while I'm not sure what Mr Gray was doing."

The group whispered amongst themselves, watching Dorian with wide-eyes. Steerpike wasn't sure exactly what to think.

"Gray?" asked one finally.

"Dorian Gray," said the blonde idly. "A pleasure to meet—"

But he was actually cut off mid-sentence by something that was- to Steerpike's ears, at least- worse than a fangirl's squeal- a _fanboy's _squeal.

"Oh-Em-Gee!" cried one.

"There's that phrase again," Erik muttered. "Even as we are adored by these adolescents, we still manage to abhor the world!"

"That must be why we're still sociopaths," Steerpike responded in a low voice.

"Dorian Gray? _The_ Dorian Gray?"

"Of course," said Dorian softly, with just a hint of subtle disdain in his voice.

"One is bad enough," Steerpike conceded. The tone he took was just loud enough for the fans to notice him, as though they hadn't before.

"Hey," said one finally, looking at him. Steerpike looked back, not realizing until it was too late that letting them see his face would be a bad idea. The figure was in a leopard print overcoat and had red lipstick on his neck and pants. (Steerpike did _not_ want to know how it got there.) And it was definitely a male figure, despite the crimped hair coated in glitter hairspray. "It's Brian Slade!" Steerpike blanched, but the word had already gone around.

"Brian Slade!"

"He's at the concert?"

"I want to touch him!"

Steerpike had begun to back away from the group when he stepped into Dorian, whose eyes widened briefly as the pair of them toppled to the ground.

Steerpike lay there dazed for a moment, then leapt to his feet and started to pray worriedly that Dorian hadn't…_enjoyed_…the brief moment of contact.

Dorian looked up at him indolently. "Aren't you going to help me up?" Steerpike glared at him, then reached down and took his hand, helping him up, then letting go of him and jumping back.

The blonde Pretty Boy glanced around the room with a frown. "I don't suppose you want to stay?" he whispered.

"No, and I suppose you do?" shot back the masked figure.

"Not especially, actually. I can think of better men to waste time on."

"I'll create a diversion," Erik said unexpectedly. Dorian glanced at him, while Steerpike stared at Dorian, mouth dropped open.

"Would you?" asked Dorian, watching with eyebrows raised. "And how would you manage?"

Erik did not look down at him (Erik being over six feet, and Dorian being 5'7''- the shortest of the group, as Steerpike was 5'10''). Instead he merely responded, "Entrancing adolescents is another of my curious talents gained as an Opera Ghost."

"It is a curious talent of mine as well," Dorian replied glibly. Steerpike was still gaping at his utter shamelessness when Dorian turned back to him.

"I do believe I like you better with your mouth open," Dorian said subtly. Steerpike's hand flew to his waist band, towards another knife, but Erik turned back at them.

"I shall distract them, and you shall leave through the back door," he said, golden eyes flashing dangerously. "But please keep _ton vice anglais_ to yourselves."

Steerpike, who was starting to regret very much that French was not one of his accomplishments, merely nodded his head. Perhaps it was better to not know whatever it was the other masked gentleman had accused him of.

Dorian tapped Steerpike on the shoulder, and Steerpike started suddenly, then jerked his arm violently.

"Oughtn't we be leaving now?" Dorian said, looking at him unconcernedly.

Steerpike nodded, and they began to walk away. It seemed some members of the group of glam-rockers were still intent on following, but suddenly the most amazing sound was heard, and the teenagers froze. Was that a human voice? It was singing—but singing unlike any Steerpike had ever heard. Dorian too stopped to listen.

"Erik is…not bad," Steerpike said, walking back towards Erik unconsciously. "I should think that's not how you entrance adolescents…"

He felt a hand grip his shoulder and started, looking back. Dorian looked back at him, seemingly quite amused.

"No, but then, my tricks aren't learned in places so public as Opera Houses," the blonde replied.

Steerpike stared at him coldly and Dorian sighed.

"Come on, and you'll be stuck in an unknown building with a pansexual playboy and his silver cigarette case, admittedly," Dorian said, with the graceful air of one calmly explaining what he did the other evening at the Opera, "but if you stay here you'll be stuck in a small room with a selection of pansexual groupies who have even less self control than I. You take your pick."

Dorian turned and left the room, shutting the door very softly behind him. Steerpike blinked, then turned back. Erik was reaching the end of the song…Steerpike sighed to himself, feeling extremely martyred, and followed after Dorian.

As soon as he'd stepped into the curiously dark hallway and shut the door behind him, he felt a hand take his wrist and tug him rather harshly away from there.

"Dorian?"

"Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian," came the reply. Steerpike felt agitated at the tone of voice; he could almost imagine the smirk that would be on his face. The young man stopped and pulled his hand out of the other's grasp, and demanded, "What are you doing?"

"I was thinking of heading to the M section of Crossovers," he said, turning back, face in shadow—why was it so dark? "But then I felt you would be unable to handle it."

"M section?" The bogs in Steerpike's brilliant mind were turning; Dorian already found him…_naïve, _so to speak. If he played that up, he might actually learn something about where he was. He had never been there before.

Dorian sighed again. "You really don't know anything, do you?"

Steerpike was proud by nature, but could be a damned good actor when it came to concealing it for a purpose. "I like to think I do," he said. He felt ridiculous at the almost childish tone his voice took on, but hearing Dorian sigh again he felt grimly triumphant.

"This building is called Fanfiction dot net," Dorian said. "We were just in the Crossovers section; now we're nowhere. We can go wherever we want, but we can't stay here."

"Why not?" Steerpike demanded, then they heard voices—those of, god confound it, teenage girls. Why teenage girls? They didn't make up a very large amount of the population. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but Steerpike was immensely confused. What was it the Researcher had said? 'Stay in character?' Steerpike felt he understood what was out-of-character—not to mention, he felt fairly out of his depth.

"Oh, God," he breathed, groaning. "These fangirls!"

Dorian stepped back, looking at him with what Steerpike thought was an amused smile.

"You know, you sound quite like Erik," came the amused voice.

"The voices are getting louder," Steerpike warned, looking around, but unable to see where they were coming from. They must have been down the dark hallway. He felt Dorian seize him by the fabric of his sleeve, by the shoulder, and lead him briskly down the hallway.

"Do you intend on explaining this Fanfiction dot net thing you were talking about sometime?" Steerpike asked in annoyance, though secretly relieved that the voices were now barely audible.

"When we get into a room," was the brusque response. "We can't stay out here!"

"Why not?"

"When we get into a room, I'll tell you!"

It seemed a lot longer than Steerpike would have liked to be creeping out in the dark hallway before Dorian reached a place, looked about—not that he could see anyone, of course—and then opened a door, then ushered Steerpike in.

Steerpike walked into the room, hearing Dorian shut the door behind him, then turn on the lights. Steerpike was not sure what he'd expected, but the room looked no different from the last one he'd been in. It was the exact same size, furnished exactly the same, everything.

"This room looks like…"

"I know," came Dorian's voice from behind him, in a pouting tone. "Quite dismal, is it not? You'd think the décor would be better around here." Dorian walked over to a chair and flung himself down into it, taking out the silver cigarette case again and lighting a cigarette, bringing it to his lips and taking a puff of the cigarette, then sighing as he blew smoke out. Then, at last, he looked up at Steerpike. The silence in the room was awesome.

"Want one?" Dorian glanced down at the case. "I give my word that I will not say anything to make you uncomfortable. I said earlier today that you were not my type, and I meant it. My sort dress much better." He brought the cigarette to his mouth, then pulled it away, and added, "Well, Alan wore quite a bit of black, too, and…" He looked at Dorian with eyes narrowed slightly in thought. "Yes, you remind me of him quite a bit, though much more adaptable, and less obstinate. You are much more elegant than he. But no, you are not my type."

Steerpike hesitated, then walked over and sat in the chair opposite Dorian.

"Then what was the harassment for?"

Dorian waved his hand dismissively. "I found it quite enjoyable. But you are far too paranoid for me to keep that up…too often."

Steerpike glared at him. "No, I do not want a cigarette. I shall never be able to like them again, what with the imagery you put into my head earlier."

"Truly?" murmured Dorian, as though to himself. "How curious! That is precisely why I _do_ like them." And as if to demonstrate his point to Steerpike, he brought the cigarette to his mouth once more. Steerpike rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat, putting his feet on the table again, crossing his legs. It was unfortunate that his black leather boots held no more knives, he thought as he folded his arms across his chest, feigning boredom when he was truly quite curious, burning with that perpetual desire to learn that made him such an antihero. He shut his eyes for a moment, then opened one indifferently, looking at Dorian.

"Gray," he started, and Dorian made a face.

"Oh, stop," he said, blowing smoke. "Now you truly _do_ sound like Alan Campbell."

"And who is Alan Campbell?" Steerpike said. Once more, that inner triumphant feeling that forced him to hide a smile; the layer of pained boredom in his voice had been, as the dandy might say, _quite utterly exquisite._

"Well, if you hadn't insisted upon skipping the section on my love interests, you might not have to ask that," came Dorian's laughing response. Grudgingly, Steerpike admitted to himself that the blonde was good company…though he would rather be on his guard, having seen that his mood could change dramatically. "Let me think…Alan…well…" Dorian took a drag on his cigarette for a moment, then set it in a crystal ashtray identical to the one that had been in the other room. "He's a scientist," he finally began carefully. "A chemist, to be precise…a musician, also. Music is how we met. We were friends for a few months, then he panicked over the details of our relationship, and thus it ended. After I murdered…the painter," he went on, eyes staring down at the table, "I…_persuaded_ Alan to dispose of the body, and later, one night in his laboratory, he shot himself." As though he heard a gunshot in his head, Dorian flinched, then looked up at Steerpike as though waiting for his response. Steerpike was more disgusted by those _details of the relationship_ and what that implied than by the reference to blackmail and the suicide.

Steerpike raised his eyebrow, then opened the other eye and said, "May I ask one question?"

Dorian sighed and looked down again, leaning back in his seat as though beaten. "If you must."

Steerpike shifted slightly in his seat. "Are you actually expecting a sociopath such as myself to scold you for your impropriety?"

Dorian glanced up, the shadow of a bitter smile playing about his fair features. "Not all my love interests have been men. The first was a young actress; she poisoned herself in her dressing room after I told her she had disappointed me."

Steerpike was starting to feel awkward at Dorian's sudden outpour of guilt. He himself didn't feel wicked, most of the time. Every once in a while, the logical side of his mind told him he was absolutely and irretrievably mad, but never that he was evil. He certainly didn't feel evil. Looking at his face in the mirror, without the mask, was painful; he looked twisted and ugly, and felt the same inside. But he never felt that twisted and ugly equaled evil.

"I started my career as a sociopath when I burned down a library. It drove the Earl mad, and he killed himself later. And my dear Lady Fuchsia drowned herself after our last interview. So our score is even."

Dorian looked at him intently for a brief moment before leaning forward, tipping his head back so that his blonde ringlets fell away from his eyes. "Do you always call her _Lady_ Fuchsia?"

"You've met Lords and Ladies, I don't doubt."

"Yes, most notably a Lord Henry," Dorian said, then stared at Steerpike with a keen expression. "And I'll have you know I called him 'Harry'. So…why call your own love interest _Lady_ Fuchsia?"

Steerpike shut his eyes again, as though still indifferent, but really felt tears pricking his eyelids, and felt a crease of annoyance wrinkle his brow as he thought about it. There was nothing, he thought firmly to himself, to tear up over. "Well, I almost kissed her, once. That last interview I mentioned? I called her Fuchsia, and she said…" Steerpike stopped, voice almost breaking, however determined he was to sound indifferent. It should not affect him like that. "She said, How dare you call me that…Kitchen boy…" He shook his head, then opened one eye again. It was easier to open one eye without tearing up than both. "I'm fairly certain you never had the stigma of Kitchen Boy in your experience with _Lord Henry._"

Dorian watched him silently, and Steerpike shut his other eye to avoid the gaze. "No, never that." Another pause. "And so you don't mind that I've driven two people to suicide?"

"I don't mind that _I've_ driven two people to suicide," Steerpike replied smoothly, eyes still shut. "Why should I worry myself about you?"

Then, he heard a very soft reply. "I killed a man."

"Yeah, the painter. You mentioned."

"He was a friend."

"Was he? Good thing you killed him. It's a good way to resist temptation." Steerpike's eyes remained shut, but he could hear much better that way, and focus on what he heard. Fabric rustling, the creak of a chair as Dorian shifted in his seat. The young man's ragged breath, then his bitter laugh and short reply, "The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it." Then, in an even softer tone, "He didn't deserve to die…not in that manner, at least."

Steerpike laughed. "What did he do, spurn you?"

"The love Basil held for me was of the noblest kind," was Dorian's answer. He sounded perfectly composed.

"The love I held for Fuchsia was of the noblest kind," was Steerpike's equally steady rejoinder. "Which suits, as she was a very noble girl. And yet, alas," he went on, almost mockingly, "she died anyway."

There was another silence before Dorian could be heard to remark, "You didn't say 'Lady' this time."

Steerpike paused. "No." The silence was deafening. "So you killed someone who loved you. I've never killed anyone who loved me, but then…" A shrug. "If I only killed people who loved me, I wouldn't be a murderer."

Dorian laughed, this time without bitterness, but out of what sounded like delight. Steerpike opened his eyes and stared at him. "Well, if you were my type, I could argue that…but you're not artistic in any manner."

Steerpike shut his eyes, deciding to omit the fact that he'd written poetry for Fuchsia and knew how to play the flute very, very well. "And so would you like Erik?"

Dorian didn't answer, instead asking, "How many men have you murdered?"

Steerpike, without feeling pride or pain, answered, "Well, about two…wait, I killed several guards after killing Flay…hmm…" He shrugged. "Well, various guards were killed…I knifed one in the same manner you saw the Dark Lord die, and set the other on dire, then drowned him…And starved two women, poisoned another…" He laughed suddenly. "And the twins make it five!"

Dorian did not see the humour in that, but thought it best to not comment. "I said I would explain Fanfiction dot net, didn't I?"

Steerpike blinked, then put his legs down and leaned forward in his seat. "Yes, you did."

Dorian sighed and ran his long fingers through his golden hair. "Well. As you've seen, we're extremely popular. Sometimes girls that the one we met earlier get ideas for our lives or relationships and write them into stories. This is a place where they are often put."

Steerpike was completely unable to believe what he was hearing, and shook his head to clear it. "What about…what about what we have to say about it?"

Dorian shook his head. "To them, we're nothing but playtoys."

"And I bet you just love that, don't you?"

Dorian looked up at him in distaste. "I'm rarely spoken of—as are you, for the most part—but when I do…" He shook his head. "I've been paired with everyone from Harry to one of his _maids._"

"And so girls like the Researcher write these things?"

"And put them here, yes." Dorian inspected his fingernails.

"So the M section is…?" Steerpike remembered something about that mentioned.

"It stands for Mature," Dorian replied. "The highest rating you can get. There's T for Teen and E for Everyone, and probably some others, but I can't think of them now."

"And Crossovers?" Steerpike almost wished he could take notes, but his memory had always been exceptional.

"When characters from more than one section are in a single story."

Steerpike's head was spinning. "How is it you know this and I don't? Does Erik know? Did Riddle?"

"I don't believe Riddle knew it, though he may have because he is extremely popular," Dorian replied. "Erik and I know it because there are sections here on Fanfiction with us in them. For him, someone made a musical; and we're both in a film, called _The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen._ Your _Gormenghast _is in a realm all of its own."

Steerpike nodded. "And those teenagers from earlier? Were they from the film or were they just fangi…fanboys?"

"That is a very good question," Dorian admitted. "I have to admit, I have no idea. We'll have to ask Erik when we get back."

Steerpike suddenly jumped up from his seat. "Good God! I can't believe we left him."

"You want to go back?"

"Well, would there be a Convention without him?"

"There'd be us two." Dorian didn't seem particularly concerned, feeling that Erik could take care of himself very well, but stood anyway.

"Two people isn't many. Besides, don't you want to be better than the LXG?" Steerpike was already moving towards the door.

'You're rather competitive," Dorian said with a laugh. "But I, I am afraid, am not." He followed him out of the room, turning out the lights and shutting the door behind them, then heading quietly in the direction of the other room. This time they heard no voices of teenage girls, though neither questioned it.

Steerpike found the dark he did not mind this time, though he wasn't sure how Dorian knew where he was going, and when Dorian stopped, he wasn't positive that he could be sure. And if Erik had left the room by now? They all looked the same anyway. But Dorian opened the door and walked into the room, and Steerpike followed.

And then they froze, both of them, at the same time. A girl with curly brown hair was crying, talking to a group of teenage girls with very serious looks on their faces. Erik was there—restrained by teenage girls? How could teenage girls restrain him? The boys in glitter were gone, but these teenage females somehow frightened Steerpike even more. A hand near his belt, where the other knife was kept, he walked over, Dorian following, exchanging a look of confusion with him.

"What's going on?" Dorian asked as they approached. He noticed the body of a handsome young man—probably a nobleman—on the ground beside them, and shivered.

A teenage girl looked up and giggled, and another stepped on her foot, causing her to shriek shrilly. Then a girl turned to them. "Dorian Gray? And…Steerpike?" she said, looking them both over.

"Yes," they answered simultaneously, glancing at one another. Two girls walked behind them and, before either could react, handcuffed them. Dorian gave a soft cry of surprise, then looked up at the girl, terror entering his gaze. Steerpike couldn't imagine anything worse than this, except, perhaps, Dorian continuing to hit on him.

"What's going on?" the blonde repeated.

One of the teenage girls comforting the weeping brunette turned to them.

"Phantom," she began.

"Erik!" growled the Frenchman.

"He has a name?" the brunette managed through her tears.

"Erik," the girl said uncertainly, then regained her vocal strength. "Erik, Steerpike, and Dorian Gray, you are hereby under arrest—"

"What?" Steerpike blinked.

"—by the C2 Community 'Policefangirls' for the murders of, respectively, Raoul de Chagny—"

"I wish!" shouted Erik angrily. "But _that is not Raoul de Chagny."_

"—Tom Riddle," the girl went on. "Or, Voldemort, to those who knew him…"

Someone behind her started crying. "I know," said the girl, pausing in her list of crimes. "It's going to be hard for us. But _Horcruxes,"_ she breathed, saying the phrase as though it were sacred. "Anyway, and the murder of Nemo's first mate Ishmael."

Dorian breathed in relief, thankful that they did not know about Basil, then started, and cried, "But that wasn't—oh, _God_, I hate that film!"

Steerpike was confused, then figured it must have had something to do with LXG.

"Your rights—to remain silent, and that stuff, and to…an attorney, and if you guys can't find one, the C2 will totally provide. And there are other ones, but I can't remember them. It says them on our homepage, though," she added, popping her bubble gum.

"Oh Em Gee!" cried another. "I can't wait for the trial! What happens if they're convicted, though?"

"Oh Em Gee, what a great fanfic that would make! I am, like, so excited!" Another had said this, and she looked close to hysteria, so when she said she was excited, Steerpike felt she was underestimating her emotions a bit.

"Well, take them to the jailhouse," said the other girl, shrugging. The girls poked them until they started moving, and then herded them down the dark hallway and into another room—one that looked, for once, very different from the others, being quite small, dark, and unpleasant. Steerpike assumed Dorian didn't know about its existence, for he looked surprised at its appearance.

When the door had shut and locked itself, Erik cursed in French, then muttered sharply, "Fangirls!" And threw himself on a cot in the corner.

Steerpike brooded, looking out through a barred window into the dark hallway. "Well, at least it isn't the kitchens," he muttered.

Dorian sighed and sat at a plain, dark table, pulling out his cigarette case. With his cherry lips and golden curls, he looked very out of place there. He lit a cigarette, the tip flaring orange briefly, took a long drag, then blew out smoke. The miasma made his appearance ghostly for a matter of moments. "Want a cigarette?" he asked the others. Erik muttered, then conceded, and Steerpike, feeling that in an environment like this Dorian wouldn't make any snide comments, turned and sat at the small table himself, taking one. It wasn't like there was anything better to do, anyway.

**Damn, they like cigarettes. So, who thinks they'll get off?**


End file.
